His days had not been passed in singleness
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—
Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80
She was a woman of a stirring lifeWhose heart was in her house; two wheels she had
Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool;
That small, for flax;and if one wheel had rest
It was because the other was at work. 85
The Pair had but one inmate in their houseAn only Child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o’er his years, began
To deem that he was old,—in shepherd’s phrase
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 90
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm
The one of an inestimable worth
Made all their household. I may truly say
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone, 95
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 100
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named)
And his old Father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ 105
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
Wool for the Housewife’s spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe
Or other implement of house or field
Down from the ceiling, by the chimney’s edge, 110
That in our ancient uncouth country style
With huge and black projection overbrowed
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had performed 115
Service beyond all others of its kind
Early at evening did it burn—and lateSurviving comrade of uncounted hours
Which, going by from year to year, had found
And left, the couple neither gay perhaps 120
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes
Living a life of eager industry
And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth yearThere by the light of this old lamp they sate
Father and Son, while far into the night 125
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies
This light was famous in its neighbourhood
And was a public symbol of the life 130
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise
And westward to the village near the lake; 135
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the House itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale
Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR
Thus living on through such a length of years, 140
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael’s heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear—
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all— 145
Than that a child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail. 150
Exceeding was the love he bare to him
His heart and his heart’s joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use 155
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
His cradle, as with a woman’s gentle hand
And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on boy’s attire, did Michael love, 160
Albeit of a stern unbending mind
To have the young-one in his sight, when he
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd’s stool
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
Under the large old oak, that near his door 165
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade
Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears
There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 170
With others round them, earnest all and blitheWould Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 175
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears
And when by Heaven’s good grace the boy grew up
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old;
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 180
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd’s staff
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 185
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely called
There stood the urchin, as you will divine
Something between a hindrance and a help;
And for this cause not always, I believe, 190
Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, 195
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways
He with his Father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the Shepherd loved before
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came 200
Feelings and emanations—things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind;
And that the old Man’s heart seemed born again?
Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up:
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 205
He was his comfort and his daily hope

While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 210
In surety for his brother’s son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means;
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 215
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost. 220
As soon as he had armed himself with strength
To look his troubles in the face, it seemed
The Shepherd’s sole resource to sell at once
A portion of his patrimonial fields
Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 225
And his heart failed him. ‘Isabel,’ said he
Two evenings after he had heard the news
‘I have been toiling more than seventy years
And in the open sunshine of God’s love
Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours 230
Should pass into a stranger’s hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
And I have lived to be a fool at last 235
To my own family. An evil man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not false
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but 240
’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus
When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 245
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know’st
Another kinsman—he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man
Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go, 250
And with his kinsman’s help and his own thriftHe quickly will repair this loss, and then
He may return to us. If here he stay
What can be done? Where every one is poor
What can be gained? 255
At this the old Man paused,And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times
There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself
He was a parish boy—at the church-door 260
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with pedlar’s wares;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there, 265
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich
And left estates and monies to the poor
And, at his birthplace, built a chapel floored 270
With marble which he sent from foreign landsThese thoughts, and many others of like sort
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad
And thus resumed:—‘Well, Isabel! this scheme 275
These two days, has been meat and drink to me
Far more than we have lost is left us yet
—We have enough—I wish indeed that I
Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope
—Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the best 280
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
—If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.’
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 285
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work: for, when she lay 290
By Michael’s side, she through the last two nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 295
Were sitting at the door, ‘Thou must not go:
We have no other Child but thee to lose
None to remember—do not go away
For if thou leave thy Father he will die.’
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; 300
And Isabel, when she had told her fears
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire
With daylight Isabel resumed her work; 305
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 310
To which, requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over; Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
Nor was there at that time on English land 315
A prouder heart than Luke’s. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old Man said
‘He shall depart to-morrow.’ To this word
The Housewife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go, 320
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease
Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard 325
The tidings of his melancholy loss
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet’s edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the workWith Luke that evening thitherward he walked; 330
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped
And thus the old Man spake to him:—‘My Son
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 335
And all thy life hast been my daily joy
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories; ’twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should touch
On things thou canst not know of.—After thou 340
First cam’st into the world—as oft befalls
To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 345
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tune:
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month, 350
And in the open fields my life was passed
And on the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father’s knees
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 355
Have played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.’
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand
And said, ‘Nay, do not take it so—I see 360
That these are things of which I need not speak
—Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others’ hand; for, though now old 365
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth
Both of them sleep together; here they lived
As all their Forefathers had done; and when
At length their time was come, they were not loth 370
To give their bodies to the family mould
I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived:
But, ’tis a long time to look back, my Son
And see so little gained from threescore years
These fields were burthened when they came to me; 375
Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine
I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work
And till these three weeks past the land was free
—It looks as if it never could endure 380
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou shouldst go.’
At this the old Man paused;Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:
‘This was a work for us; and now, my Son
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone—
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands
Nay, Boy, be of good hope;—we both may live 390
To see a better day. At eighty-four
I still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;
I will do mine.—I will begin again
With many tasks that were resigned to thee:
Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 395
Will I without thee go again, and do
All works which I was won't to do alone
Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy!
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
With many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes— 400
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish
To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me
Only by links of love: when thou art gone
What will be left to us!—But, I forget
My purposes: Lay now the corner-stone, 405
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke
When thou art gone away, should evil men
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son
And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts
And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear 410
And all temptations, Luke, I pray that thou
May’st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived
Who, being innocent, did for that cause
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—
When thou return’st, thou in this place wilt see 415
A work which is not here: a covenant
’Twill be between us; but, whatever fate
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last
And bear thy memory with me to the grave.’
The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, 420
And, as his Father had requested, laid
The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight
The old Man’s grief broke from him; to his heart
He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;
And to the house together they returned. 425
—Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace
Ere the Night fell:—with morrow’s dawn the Boy
Began his journey, and when he had reached
The public way, he put on a bold face;
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, 430
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers
That followed him till he was out of sight
A good report did from their kinsman come
Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 435
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout
‘The prettiest letters that were ever seen.’
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts
So, many months passed on: and once again
The Shepherd went about his daily work 440
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began
To slacken in his duty; and, at length, 445
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas
There is a comfort in the strength of love; 450
’Twill make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset the brain, or break the heart:
I have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the old Man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news. 455
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud
And listened to the wind; and, as before
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, 460
And for the land, his small inheritance
And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
His flock had need. ’Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart 465
For the old Man—and ’tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went
And never lifted up a single stone
There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 470
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet
The length of full seven years, from time to time
He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought
And left the work unfinished when he died
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 475
Survive her Husband: at her death the estate
Was sold, and went into a stranger’s hand
The Cottage which was named THE EVENING STAR
Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground
On which it stood; great changes have been wrought 480
In all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left
That grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll

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After it was published, Wordsworth wrote to a friend, “I have attempted to give a picture of a man, of strong mind and lively sensibility, agitated by two of the most powerful affections of the human heart; the parental affection, and the love of property, landed property, including the feelings of inheritance, home, and personal and family independence.”